Donuts 'n' Bolts
by Taila-Tai
Summary: Bucky was a retired army commando, occasional drunk, and roommate to his very sick best friend. The same best friend who was eight feet in debt and drowning. Determined to help, he seeks out work – landing in a warm bakery, and learning how to work a coffee machine with one arm. He'd prepared to deal with rude customers and pitying looks, but billionaire geniuses? He needed a raise
1. Prologue

The most pivotal changes in life are defined by a single moment.

Now a has-been soldier, spat out by the military – _honorably, of course_ – he understood how a split second could change everything. If he hesitated, finger on the trigger for a beat too long, someone within his ranks could die. If he didn't hesitate, pulling the trigger thoughtlessly, then someone _did_ die.

Life was decided by those moments. Those moments when your heart is thick in your throat, when you've got dozens of voices in your head screaming, when your blood manages to both sing and boil at the same time. Hell, he made the final choice to join the military in an _argument_ , bellowing out the decision in the hope it _hurt_ , and his path in life was altered. He lost his arm during another fight, one with bombs and infections instead of words, when he decided living was more important than keeping one limb – and his life was altered.

One day in the future he'd look back and see that this moment – catching the edge of the envelope hidden in the trash, and shutting the door instead of walking through it – was the most pivotal yet.

Bucky left his keys by the door, instead moving into the kitchenette to watch the blond furiously mix something with a scowl. It only took that one glance to realize that the envelope hadn't been good news; stress baking was a _very_ real problem in their household. "Hey there, Stevie," he greeted quietly, somehow still startling the smaller man. "Are you really baking at this hour?"

Steve gave a limp shrug. "I'm trying out some new recipes, thought the bakery needed something different," he muttered, wiping his hands on his apron as he looked up. "I thought you were going out tonight? Something about a bendy blonde with low standards?"

"I thought it over, ended up deciding I might as well stay in. You're my favorite _bendy blond_ anyway," Bucky winked, humming under his breath as he took in the destruction around him. "Okay, wait what? Why does it look like you murdered a family of unicorns in here?"

The blond snorted, the sound laced with amusement. "Because I tried making these weird confetti cupcake things?" he declared uncertainly, shifting so the flour covered recipe book was visible. "Last batch is still in the oven. What do you think? Good for the new year holidays or too tacky?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "It's perfect, really, you're an evil mastermind in the kitchen," he soothed sarcastically, darting to the side and swiping a cake. His hand was slapped by a wooden spoon but he emerged victorious; bruising knuckles or not. Taking a bite, he groaned his approval; "Damn, butchered unicorns taste _good_. I bet some of your regulars are gonna be all over these; might even have to make 'em a permanent addition."

Steve lifted a curious brow.

"Translation – I like them so make more, please and thank you," Bucky explained, watching the blond grab one and nervously start nibbling. "They'll definitely make the kids happy, if anything, especially with all this colour. You could call them unicorn cupcakes. _Unicupcakes?"_

Steve seemed to carefully agree, lips pursed. "It's only sprinkles in the batter, Buck, no biggie," he murmured shyly. "And yeah, I guess they're _okay?"_

Knowing better than to rub in how good they _really_ were – the blond would only believe him less and less with every comment – he made grabby hands at the remaining cakes. They were only _testers_ so he could eat as many as his metabolism would allow. "I'm impressed anyway. What is that? Caramel?"

"Butterscotch," Steve corrected, dutifully grabbing another and shoving it into his hand. "Plain sugar icing? I don't want too much flavors at once."

Content to shove another bite past his lips, Bucky hiked up onto the counter. "Butterscotch," he echoed, licking his lips before beaming. "You sure art is the way you wanna go? I feel like baking is more you. Making people happy one cream pie at a – oh, _cream cheese icing._ You have to do cream cheese icing. Please? I will love you forever if you do."

It was Steve who rolled his eyes this time around, moving to fetch the ingredients without thought. "You already promised to love me forever when I made you that banana cake last week," he reminded the soldier.

Bucky blinked. "I'll love you forever times two?"

"Promised that too."

Slumping over slightly, the ex-soldier jutted out his lips in a perfect pout. "You player hater," he grumbled, somehow managing to fit the rest of the cupcake in his mouth. It was a little snug, but he spoke around it anyway; "So, did we get any mail today?"

Thin shoulders started winding back up, like a tension controlled toy. "Um, well some more cards from your sisters…" Steve swallowed thickly, busying his hands with the icing. There was that stress baking thing he'd complained about. "Ever gonna get around to sending one back?"

 _Ouch, dodging a personal question with another one?_

Bucky fought to get from snapping to attention, forcing his own shoulders to relax back to something loosely calm. "Two words, my dearest boy. _Christmas_ _sweaters_. I need two that are so damn ugly they could blind people and make children cry," he decided firmly, nodding as the master plan came to being in his mind. "Then we need to wear them, and snap a photo. Only then, with our shame forever immortalized, will I send a card back."

Steve sent him something he could only label as a dirty look. "Why do I have to get involved? It's _your_ family and _your_ shame, not mine."

"Oh please," Bucky snorted, sucking on his fingers to draw out any left-over butterscotch. "My mother adopted you years ago, and we both know you're her favorite son. As for my sisters? They think you're about as cute as a button. It's sickening."

The sad part, he mused idly, was that there was no lie to his words. Once the blond's mother had finally passed, leaving him alone in this world, his own snapped him up like a starving lioness. Steve was a model child after all, truth and honor wrapped up in a cherub package – perfection compared to her own blood child. She needed a son like Steve to make up for having someone as volatile as Bucky for her eldest.

Bitterness was a terrible taste, and he masked it with an easy smile. "Anyway, I'll read them later. Is that all we got?" he pressed, smacking his lips.

"Um…" Steve seemed to be weighing something in his mind, throat moving. "Um, another letter," he admitted softly. "From the uh, from the clinic. I'm behind in my payments. They're threatening to stop my prescriptions, and refuse any further examinations until the debt starts being dealt with."

Bucky closed his eyes, exhaustion washing over him. _Damn, exactly what I didn't want._ "Alright, okay," he breathed, nodding as he came back to reality – a reality he sorely wished wasn't real "Alright, we can deal with this. I have some money, if we ask the landlord for an extension then – "

"Buck, stop."

Blue clashed with blue, one shade defeated and the other fiery, as both friends sat at a standstill in the silence. He already knew what the argument was going to be, knew what turn it would take. He knew it all, but still managed to quirk a brow in challenge, unable to keep from wondering if the trademark string of words would change. There were new factors now – new people involved, and new threats on the horizon.

Steve took the bait – just like he always did. "Your pension was barely enough to cover your _own_ medical bills, Buck, and those are still coming in. I'm not letting you waste your savings on me," he sighed, going back to the bowl and the pathetically overwhipped cream. "I'll handle it."

Word for damn word. The argument hadn't changed, despite the months of repetition.

"Well, it's not like I expected to live on the pension forever," Bucky admitted carefully, aware he was drifting from the usual path. Absently, he lifted a hand to rub at his left shoulder, swearing he could feel pain in a limb that was no longer there. "Maybe it's time I stop going out every night to get sloshed. I always hated the hangovers anyway. I mean, what's the use of a few hours of fun, if they're gonna be followed by even _more_ hours of pure hell?"

Steve openly faltered at the change, visibly confused that the other man hadn't stuck to the script. "Wait, so you want to – what? Start looking for work?"

The question, while blunt and rude sounding, was understandable. Bucky hated pity almost as much as he hated people staring at his shoulder, and the thought of getting a job someplace – the thought of people staring while he was _sober_ enough to recognize the mocking sympathy? Well, believe it or not, there was a reason that every time someone made the recommendation it was quickly shot down.

"Yeah, I think that'll work. I mean, I think _I'll_ work?" Bucky gave a limp smile, wondering if he'd get away with grabbing another cupcake. His knuckles were still stinging from the latest whack, but he was hungry. "It's either that or I get a sugar daddy."

The blond beamed in both amusement and pride, his first genuine smile this evening. "If you think this is what we should do then I'm in – we can speak to Natasha tomorrow, see if she needs help at the bakery. Did you wanna come into work, or ask her at group therapy?"

"Might as well do it at my new place of work," Bucky barked out a laugh. "Can you imagine? _The one-armed baker_. I can see the headlines now."

A dollop of frosting hit him square on the nose, like a wadded-up newspaper swatting him. Steve lowered the whisk with a quirked brow. "One-armed _barista_ ," he corrected, squaring out his shoulders. He was either expecting a fight, or feeling indignant. "Remember when I said Rumlow hasn't been showing up to work? Turns out he's on holiday leave. Not any he _applied_ for, or any he told us about though, of course. Tasha is pissed, she wants to fire him."

Indignation it was then. "Jesus. Tell her I support the decision," Bucky grimaced, licking the icing from his upper lip before wiping the rest away. "What an ass."

Steve shook his head. "Well, he's hinting at claiming unfair dismissal. Saying she looks down on him because of the burn scars? It's a bunch of bullshit of course; she couldn't care more about them, but it could hold up if he wanted to make a fuss," he finished with a frown, lips set. "So, we're collecting evidence."

"Evidence of his assholery. That'll hold up in court," Bucky nodded, grinning impishly when blue eyes glared his way. "Stop with that look punk, you can't prove me wrong. Besides if she hires me, his claims could be proven as bullshit. If he tries to say she has something against disfigurement, we can point to my arm. If he tries to say she has something against war vets, _we can_ _point to my arm_. It's a win-win for everyone."

Steve let out a sigh. "Actually, you might have a point there. It'll help, in the very least," he murmured, blinking at his bowl of icing thoughtfully. It lasted all of three seconds before his face split into another smile, one brighter than the damn unicorn sprinkles littering the floor – _which goddamn it, he was on mop duty this week, the little shit_. "He doesn't matter – what _does_ is your ability to work. Think you can figure out a coffee machine? If you can't, that's fine, Natasha will just pay for a barista course. It only takes about three days or so. That should keep you busy and away from me."

Bucky blew out a raspberry, knowing this was only the beginning of the blond's excited ramblings. His best friend was like a child, all bright eyes and loud opinions. "I can _so_ work a coffee maker. It has buttons, doesn't it? I can push buttons."

"Don't I know it," Steve grumbled.


	2. Peach Tart

Bucky had never been to a bloody interview in his life.

No, he didn't count getting into the military as an _interview._ The officials he'd met had only bothered with a medical and background check – wanting to make sure he wasn't some past drug dealer or a raging alcoholic, he guessed? – before they passed him a rifle and threw him into the middle of a war. They didn't want their soldiers to be geniuses, or the top of their class in high school. They only wanted their soldiers in the ideal incorruptible condition, with all four limbs, some _rough_ semblance of intelligence and a lust for battle.

" _Physical perfection, but not mental perfection,"_ Steve would say, his brow furrowed and contempt plain in blue eyes. _"They want you able to pull a trigger, sure, but not able to tell whether or not you should."_

Damn punk had a way of voicing exactly what his conscience was thinking.

Bucky sighed, clenching his right hand and feeling his chest tighten in response. It had been like this all morning, like nervousness and excitement tearing at his guts, like fear and joy heating up his cheeks. He was looking forward to the opportunity, but at the same time he wanted to go home and hide instead. He wanted to change things, but he didn't want things to change.

It seemed that as soon as he labelled the emotion, it would switch sides and screw things up. He'd be proud he was getting out there, proud he was getting over his fear of the public and the world – and then his mind would point out that fear, reminding him why he had it in the first place.

He couldn't _win._

" – a large cappuccino, and one poppy-lemon muffin. Awesome, is that all for today?" The guy behind the counter flashed a winning smile, checking his customer once more before typing up the order. It was a quick flurry of movement, and the soldier felt his head ache the longer he stared. "Okay, great, so that'll be seven dollars and ninety cents. Are you paying with cash or card?"

Bucky wasn't expected to be that _cheerful_ , right? He was a pessimist rather than an optimist; a _the glass is half empty_ kinda guy. He knew how to fake a smile, sure – he had family reunions annually, it was a needed skill – but it made his cheeks hurt. He usually didn't bother with anything more than his resting bitch face, at least _that_ didn't take any effort.

"Bucky!"

The soldier turned in time to catch a blur of brown and red heading straight for him, his mind spinning to identify the attacker before they collided. It was luck alone that stopped war-trained instincts from lashing out, his hand moving to cradle rather than hurt when he managed to label the thick accent. "Bloody hell," he grunted, clutching the new weight against his chest. "Starshine, haven't I told you you're not allowed to sneak up on me like that?"

Wanda gave an apologetic smile, frilly apron leaving flour stains all over his shirt. "Bucky," she repeated warmly, accent putting emphasis on each letter in the strangest way. "I missed you, where have you been?"

"You know, _around_ , here and there – always where I shouldn't be," he allowed, petting down wild bangs. "But I missed you too, darling."

The youth stared up at him, wide eyes unblinking. "If you miss me, then why not come? You walk past store to get to gym, yes? You could visit me before or after sessions," she grumbled childishly, tucking her face into his shirt. Her small frame was practically swallowed by his shoulders, and he was violently reminded how fragile she was. "I get lonely when store is quiet, and customers gone."

Guilt latched onto him at the words, scolding him for missing his usual visits. "Hey now, what do you mean lonely? You've got Stevie, don't you?" Bucky argued, smoothing his hand down the length of her back. "And you've got that, um, that guy over there, ah that – "

" _Scott?"_

" – yeah, Scott, good guy, I like him," Bucky coughed, smiling awkwardly. "Also, if you forget Natasha she might forget your next pay check."

Wanda sighed, smothering her amused smile. "You will come in once a week," she demanded, propping her chin up on his chest. The glare he received warned him against arguing, so he only quirked a brow, following the topic change easily. "You come in once a week, I make you free coffee?"

Bucky didn't bother checking his grin, victory written on every feature. "Starshine, we have a deal."

The younger girl pulled back, holding out one hand to cement their agreement. "Okay, we have deal," she repeated, words not quite falling comfortably from her tongue. The fumbling made him smile slightly, amused at her struggle. "I need to make coffee for customer, but you want one after, yes?"

He checked the store over quickly, flinching when he noticed even more people flooding through the doors. The lunch rush was beginning, and he was _leaving_. "That sounds brilliant," Bucky winked, slipping behind the counter and out into the back room. "I'll see you in a bit."

The kitchen, with its high ceiling and bright windows, helped him breathe a little easier – the panic building in his chest loosening. He could _totally_ do this. The other employees would be happy to welcome him in, he was a good worker, and being a barista would mean little social interaction. People wouldn't pity him because of the arm, no, they would be amazed he still worked and earned his keep.

He could get respect – and all he had to do was swallow his pride for a few minutes

Bucky let the smile widened when a surprised sound reached his ears, eyes glancing to the nearest oven. "Hey there, punk," he greeted warmly, coming up to nudge the blond's side. "You wouldn't happen to be making sourdough would you, cause well, I didn't have lunch…"

Steve looked pleasantly surprised to see him, holding the bread pan with mitted hands. "You came?" he breathed out, looking heart-breakingly young and hopeful. It made him seem healthy almost, draining the pale pallor from his cheeks and adding laughter to his eyes. "You're actually gonna do this, then? I thought that maybe…"

"All talk, no walk?" Bucky wrinkled his nose. "Come on, have a little faith."

Hurrying to put the hot pan down, the blond shoved his side. "Hey, I have faith in you," Steve argued, pointing his lucky oven-mitts threateningly between blue eyes. "I also have insider knowledge on how you work however. I thought I'd be talking you down from a panic attack at some point today."

Bucky swallowed, giving an awkward cough-chuckle, hand coming up to rub at his nape. "Yeah, I thought you would be too," he admitted quietly, shrugging a shoulder. The blond's eyes shuttered, and he hurried to add; "But here I am, calm and zen, ready for _anything."_

"James? I didn't know you were coming today?"

The soldier turned to take in pale eyes and vivid red locks. "Okay, ready for anything, but that," Bucky murmured, catching the smaller man stifle his laugher with an oven mitt. "Natty, hey, yeah sorry, I should've warned you at therapy," he excused, wincing and giving her the most remorseful look he could conjure up. "You're not too busy, are you? I was kinda hoping to talk to you before the lunch rush, but I got a little distracted."

"It's okay," Natasha waved a hand. "But do you mind maybe popping back in about an hour? I'm needed out front."

Steve snapped into action, like a perfect little tin soldier. "I can help out the front, Nat, don't worry," he promised, grinning breathily at them both and scooting towards the archway. "You two have that talk."

They both watched the man scatter, disappearing through the door and leaving them in silence. Natasha opened her mouth, closed it, hesitated, quirked a brow, then opened it again. "Okay…" she muttered, drawing out the vowel. "He told me not to worry, but I'm worrying."

"Don't. You know him, he's a drama queen," Bucky rolled his eyes. "Also, one part golden labrador."

The red head gave a gentle exhale – basically hysterical laughter in her language – before gesturing to the open door nestled in the corner. "Well okay, let's have this talk then," Natasha instructed, lowering her brow to give him a curious, but challenging, look. "If you took time outta your day to come see me, it must be pretty serious. I know how _busy_ you can be, dealing with hangovers and the like."

Bucky dropped into oversized armchair, still in its ridiculous shade of crimson. "Wow, I love you too," he snorted, splaying out comfortably with his legs over the side. "Listen, I… I just thought this was something we should talk about in person, away from therapy, you know?"

"In person? It is serious, then. You, _oh god_ , you're not going to ask me out, are you?" Natasha teased, gasping dramatically. Before moving to sit behind her desk, she hesitated, looking to the door for a split second before slamming it shut. "I hate to break your heart like this, but I'm seeing someone."

Bucky poked out his tongue. "I hate to break _your_ heart like this, but I think of you as more of a sister than – wait, you're seeing someone? You? The great _get-on-my-level-peasant_ queen of sass?" he choked, watching her features contort in feigned annoyance. "I'm sorry, but I don't believe for a second you manage to talk someone into dating you, self-preservation would've stopped them."

Natasha was already scrolling through her phone, pushing it across the smooth wooden surface. "Bruce," she introduced, gesturing to the guy in the photo with bright eyes. Her arms folded firmly across her chest, angled chin lifted up. "He's a physicist, and _he exists._ Your move, Bucko."

The soldier bent over, snatching up the phone and studying the screen. _Bruce_ was some dark-haired dork with thin rimmed glasses, his smile awkwardly adorable and collar buttoned all the way to the top. He was smiling at whoever stood behind the camera, not seeming to notice he was getting his photo taken _or_ the fact his fly was undone.

Jesus.

Bucky risked a disbelieving look up. "You're dating _him?_ He looks like a preppy science nerd," he joked, smiling to disarm any insult as he pushed the phone back. "He suits you perfectly. But you know I have to give him the fabled _talk_ now, don't you? Sit him down, threaten certain part of his anatomy, twirl a baseball bat between my fingers. It's something that's been done all through the ages. I can't break tradition."

The approval, even as veiled as it was, made her smile. "I wouldn't ask you too," she rolled her eyes, canting her head at the photo. "He _is_ a nerd, I won't lie. I'm still trying to convince him he doesn't have to wear dress pants every day, but he thinks I'm trying to trick him into skinny jeans."

"You are trying to trick him into skinny jeans."

"I am," Natasha nodded firmly. "But since when have I become so transparent? I'm slipping."

Bucky tucked his hand into his pocket, shaking his head. "Love does funny things to people, hence why I avoid it," he sighed, winking when she shot him a tired glare. "I'm happy for you, darling, really I am, but I gotta say I'm feeling a little let down. You and I made an oath to be single and bitter together at sixty, remember? I can't believe you'd abandon me like this."

Natasha put her phone away, tapping her fingers on the desk. "Bruce doesn't really know we're dating. I haven't abandoned you yet," she shrugged, brushing her curls away and smiling. "But don't try and distract me, I know your games. What's this important thing you needed to talk about?"

The soldier bit his lip, struggling with putting the problem into words.

Pale eyes darkened in worry, recognizing the nervous tic for what it was. "It's not about money, is it? Steve's been asking for his pay check's a little earlier this month, and I offered to loan him something, but you know him…"

"Too proud to accept help, yeah, I know him," Bucky moaned, tipping his head back and breathing a sigh, staring down the ceiling. He had to fight to make eye contact once more. "Nat, listen – it _is_ about money. It's just, we've hit a – a speed bump, you know? The good luck is running dry."

The red head looked concerned instantly. "What happened?"

Bucky sighed, wanting nothing more than to tear a hand through his locks. "The hospital – the, the clinic thing Steve goes too? They're gonna stop any further treatment if he doesn't start paying what he owes," he murmured, blinking hard when exhaustion hit him. "I've tried helping before, but he doesn't _listen_ to me, Nat. So, I… last night… I put my foot down. If I want to help him – if I want to help us _both_ – I gotta stop taking no for an answer."

He was practically talking to his own head, trying to convince the lingering doubt, but the woman listened intently – nodding where it was appropriate and wincing where the words hurt. It was her story, her friend, as much as it was his, but…

Steve was his sun. Bucky orbited him, and without him, he'd die.

Bucky gave a grim smile. "I'm here to apply for your open barista position."

Natasha looked surprised, both brows up and lips slack. "You want to apply for…? You want – you want to _work?"_ she checked, knowing that he'd spoken about living out the rest of his days on the pension in therapy. The soldier couldn't bear the thought of being in public without a glass in hand and a drunken fog over his mind. "James, are you sure?"

Blue eyes darted to a single hand, splaying out the fingers on his lap. "Yeah, I am," he promised. "I can kill two birds with one stone, you know? Steve needs some extra cash, and I need to stop being a coward. It works for everyone."

The practised laugh didn't fool the woman. "You can't force your mind to heal, James."

"Maybe not," Bucky admitted, tilting his head to the side and regarding the red headed owner. "But I can force this lazy ass body to heal, can't I? Come on, Natty, I'm perfect for this, and I won't let you down, you know I won't. _You know me_. Besides, my physical therapist has been nagging me to do something with myself for months now," he added, clicking his tongue in disagreement. "Making coffees should appease the nagging bitch."

Natasha snorted at the last comment. "What have you got against that poor woman," she muttered, rolling her eyes skyward and leaning back in her chair. "I swear, every week you come up with a new insult. Your dedication is aspiring, really, but I'm concerned."

Flicking the air between them, the soldier grunted. "The damn sloth always insists on _touching_ and _physical healing."_

"Sounds like someone has a crush…"

"Sounds like someone has a lawsuit waiting," Bucky countered.

Natasha wrinkled her nose, fiddling with something in the drawer. "I'll write up a contract," she announced casually, humming under her breath as she thumbed through some pages. "I've been a little busy with Brock lately, but I should have it ready in a few days. Did you wanna hang around for the rest of the day? Maybe shadow Wanda a little, get a feel for the place? I can send you to a barista training course tomorrow, and have you working by next week. What say you?"

Bucky pushed to his feet, elation finally winning as the emotion controlling for his mind. "Aye, aye captain!" he cheered, assuming a rigid pose and slapping his hand against his forehead. "Request to eat something first, sir? I heard some sandwiches were being made, and then consequently heard my stomach rumbling."

"Strange coincidence that," Natasha pulled a face, features falling passive as she started concentrating on the paperwork. "Steve will be on his lunch break in ten, you should join him and then look around, meet the ghosts and the like."

"Ghosts?"

The red head looked up, doing a double take at the expression slackening his jaw. "You've been watching horror movies on your own again, haven't you?" she announced dryly. "Honestly, James?"

Bucky scratched at the stubble crowding his cheeks. "Does _Casper_ count as a horror? Because then yes, I have."

"Get out before I throw you out."

* * *

Bucky blinked hard, but it still didn't stop the world from spinning. "Argh, are you serious?" he snarled, rolling over and punching his pillow with a closed fist. It didn't do much to help him sleep, but he pretended it did, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. He was a firm believer in the _fake it until you make it_ way of life, even though he was starting to feel like a dick – sitting in the dark with his eyes closed and a growl on his lips.

He probably looked more like an angry ferret though. His long hair was ruffled and messy, sticking to his neck thanks to the heat, yet somehow managing to also stick three feet into the air – and his stubble was out of control, despite it only being twenty four odd hours since he last trimmed it back.

He was a mess.

The worst part though? The worst part was he didn't even know _why._

Natasha had given him exactly what he wanted, almost without a fight. Steve had reacted positively, all bright eyes and awkward hugging limbs. Wanda had been even better, almost in tears at the thought of seeing him daily…

Yet here he was, pouting at the ceiling and missing hour upon hour of much needed sleep.

Bucky pushed up, running a hand down his features and letting out a sigh. "I need a drink," he murmured, kicking back the covers and stumbling towards the kitchen. He didn't have any alcohol in the house – it had been forbidden by something small, righteous and blond – but he had a new bag of instant coffee and the willingness to miss even _more_ sleep if he had too. He'd make do.

Or he'd make some coffee, either or…

Fumbling through the kitchen was hard without any light. There were dangers lurking around every corner, be it the open cupboards at head height or the sharp corners at hip height – but he knew that as soon as he flicked on the damn switch, he'd wake up his flatmate. Steve was sensitive to the _smallest fucking_ _changes_ in their apartment, anything from sound to light. It was like living with a damn alarm system.

Not that he was _complaining_ , or anything. Steve eradicated any need to buy a guard dog.

Bucky bumped into the counter – _the worst pain alive, holy shit, he was dying –_ cursing up a creative storm, but otherwise managing to stay relatively quiet. It was all about knowing how to move, knowing what sounds _not_ to make. If anyone could sneak through their apartment, it was him.

The light flickered on above him. "Bucky, what are you doing?"

If anyone could sneak through their apartment, it _wasn't_ him.

The soldier slowly turned, cup in one hand and a lost expression on his face. "Stevie?" he squeaked, clearing his throat before offering up a bright smile. "Ah, why are you awake? I thought you were helping Natasha with the early bird shift today? Baking bread in the light of the sunrise and all that poetic rubbish," he teased gently, placing the mug down with a click and mussing his hair up even more.

Steve eyed him oddly. "You look like angry ferret," he announced – _he knew it –_ shuffling forward until he could lean against the counter. "And not just any angry ferret – but like, one who found out his wife was cheating on him with his brother because he had a better car."

"Ferrets have cars?"

"You get what I mean," Steve defended.

It was the soldier's turn to stare in odd concern. "I really don't," Bucky mumbled.

Steve rolled his eyes. "There's a moral to the story."

"Always have the better car?"

"You're not helping."

"Neither are your ferret stories," Bucky snorted, not bothering to hide the fact he was both distracting the conversation, and making a caffeinated drink. He could feel the blond's eyes following him, could practically feel the righteous fury ebbing from him in waves. It was fight time.

Steve cleared his throat. "What you making?" he asked casually.

Bucky spared the man a glance, fighting against the urge to shift his weight between his feet. "Hopefully something that will send me into cardiac arrest after the first sip," he joked lamely, lifting the bag of instant coffee for evaluation. "I'm just kidding. I don't know what I'm making. Apparently, it's coffee, but it tastes more like shit. That's what I get for buying it cheap, right?"

Steve frowned. "Bucky, you – "

"But hey, with this new job, I won't have to buy the cheap shit, will I?" Bucky wrinkled his nose, hurrying to breathe in so he could continue with his words. "I can go out and buy like, the really good crap – or, even better, I can buy an espresso machine – or even _better_ than that even better, I can just pop into work whenever the hell I want too and make myself a cup. Nat buys those really expensive coffee beans, doesn't she? Wanda showed me the bags today. I don't know what Columbia is, but I like it."

The blond darted a little closer, exasperated smile lingering on his lips. "Hey now, shut up," he murmured, closing the space between them and nudging his ribs. "I can barely stand you when you're quiet, let alone when you ramble."

Bucky sucked in a breath, staring at his best friend weakly. "What if I screw this up?"

Steve didn't even hesitate to pull him into a hug, his thin frame feeling safer than the belly of tank. "You've never screwed anything up," he announced fiercely, squeezing him once and managing to knock the air from his lungs despite frail arms. "And you never will, you hear? Natasha wouldn't let you on the team if she didn't think you can handle it, and you wouldn't have asked if you didn't think you could either."

Bucky slipped his arm around a thin waist. "Yeah, yeah. I know I can do it…" he muttered, trying to replicate the blond's confidence. "You really believe in me, don't you, punk?"

"Damn right I do, jerk," Steve clapped his shoulder. "Now, you ass, it's two in the morning. I have to get up in three hours and you – you have a barista course today," he enthused, stretching long arms above his head before giving up a sleepy grin. "If you don't get some sleep now, you never will. Not with all the coffee you'll be drinking."

Bucky chuckled as the blond awkwardly stumbled back to bed, hesitating only a second before dumping his mug down the drain and moving towards his own room.

* * *

 **Hey, hey, hey**

 **Yeah, yeah, I know – I have other stories I should be writing, but I needed to write something beautifully cheesy and cliché. This is going to be a romantic comedy if you will, now that all the depressing crap is out of the way. I can't wait to write this. It's gonna be beautiful.**

 **Taila xx**


	3. Chocolate Chip Cookies

Bucky used a shoulder to keep the phone pressed to his ear, freeing up his only hand for sweat duty. "This isn't me _complaining_ , punk," he defended, wiping the damp from his forehead. God, what idiot had cranked up the heat despite the hot weather? He felt like he was cooking from the inside out. "This is only me demanding to know why the world revolves around people with two arms?"

" _The world revolves around two-armed people, because over ninety percent of its population have two arms,"_ Steve replied dryly, used to both the not-complaining and poorly timed phone calls. _"Buck, do we really need to argue about this now? Couldn't you have waited until after my shift?_

The brunet spluttered, peeling material away – ew – from his sweat sodden chest. "Oh well, forgive me for needing some moral support."

Steve snorted on the other end of the line, tone rising up a few octaves in exasperation. _"Excuse me? How are you the one who needs support?"_ he demanded, drowning out the snarky words by flicking on an oven. It hummed warmly in the background, like a running engine. _"I'm currently fighting my way through a double shift, and trying to make enough muffins to appease the public."_

"Ooh, well don't you sound busy," Bucky mocked idly, scratching blunt nails through his stubble. "Forgive me for the intrusion, oh two-armed one," he muttered, feigning annoyance as he next ran his fingers through his hair, unplastering it – double ew – from his neck.

Silence.

Bucky frowned, now moving to grab the phone and check their connection. "Yo, you there, carebear?" he called, using a nickname he thought would get a rise from the man. It was when no one replied that he realised what game the blond was playing. "You really want to play the silent game with me? I'll keep talking until you answer, you know I will. I've already got a hundred and one topics in my head."

The gentle sound of an exhale reached his ear, the blond sighing as quietly as he could manage.

"You asked for it. Let's begin," the soldier smirked, leaning back against the nearest surface. "Topic one. I might have to rethink this whole barista thing. I didn't realise how hard making a cup of coffee really was – especially with the whole _one arm_ thing I got going. I mean, it's not only beans and milk, it's a perfect balance depending on what the heck you're trying to make. It's bloody complicated," he groaned, slumping back even further and hitting his head on something solid. "Ow, shit, damn. I forgot there was a wall there…"

There was a small grunt, like a hidden snort.

Bucky gave a grin at the victory, continuing with his useless spiel. "Okay, so tell me if I've got this right," he instructed, licking his lips. "Cappuccinos, right, they're a shot of espresso, which you then top up with steamed milk? Then you, um… you add foam… and that chocolate sprinkle dust crap?"

Steve gave up his game then, if only to correct the man. _"No, you ask the customer if they want chocolate or cinnamon. You don't assume,"_ he muttered bitterly, knowing he'd been tricked into speaking. _"Natasha will kill you if you provide bad customer service. That's her number one rule. You can steal, you can lie about being sick – but upset a customer? You'll be no-armed."_

"If she takes my last arm, I'll start kicking," Bucky scowled faintly, bowing his head when someone wandered close. He didn't recognize her – she wasn't their bland teacher, and she wasn't another student – but judging by the way people parted for her, she was important. He straightened up when she stopped a few feet before him. "Yes, yes, I know; then she'll take my legs. I already have a plan. Biting."

Steve only sighed. _"This is why people are so wary of you."_

The woman quirked a brow, looking once to the phone and waving the clipboard in her hands.

The hell was this then? Bucky bit back a frown, clearing his throat. "Hey now, play nice, punk," he commanded absently, pushing away from the wall. "I'll uh, call you later, okay? I've got a red head staring me down, so if I come home without an arm, you know who to blame okay?"

" _You always come home without an arm?"_

Bucky paused, mouth slack, before deciding to accept the little barb. "Touché. You'll pay for that later," he announced wisely, flicking a thumb across the phone screen and cancelling the call. His attention faltered now, shifting from the quiet conversation to the unknown woman standing before him. There was something in his head warning him against both a smart mouth, and flirty comments, so he settled for the always safe; "Good afternoon, ma'am."

The woman seemed interested at his words, clearly expecting something different. "Margaret Carter, I own the café," she introduced gently, holding out one hand. "I'm terribly sorry for cutting your call short."

Bucky gave a polite smile when the red head shook his hand. "Don't worry about it, I think he was getting a little sick of my voice anyway. You probably did him a favour," he teased hesitantly, unsure how she'd take a playful attitude. "Bucky Barnes."

Margaret glanced down at her clipboard with a curious brow. "Oh? I have a 'James Barnes'here…"

 _Oh, sweet heavens…_

"Not the first name, please not the first name," the soldier groaned, running a hand over his tied back hair. Earlier that morning, he'd slicked it back into a bun rather than endure a hairnet – choosing the lesser of two evils – but it was starting to burn a headache into the space behind his eyes. "Please, only my parents call me that. I prefer Bucky."

Margaret scribbled it down, nodding all the while. "Then please, call me Peggy," she compromised. "You don't mind if I see some form of identification, do you? I just want to make sure you are who you are, and all that – security reasons."

Bucky dug around in his pockets, searching for his wallet. "I've already done the whole shake down thing," he argued weakly, passing over the small plastic card. "But I'll explain again, I guess? Yes, I can drive with one arm so this driver's license _is_ valid. I just need a car with some special updates to make it a little easier for me – _but_ I am capable of driving any run of the mill automatic. Just don't ask me to shift gears."

"That sounds practised," Peggy noted, studying the photo and the date labelling his birth. It only took a quick dart of her ink pen, and then she was passing the card back with a pleasant smile. "You've had to explain this a few times, I imagine?"

Bucky deflated. "People panic if they see me behind a wheel," he admitted, shrugging limply. "Or when they see I'm legally allowed behind one."

Peggy winced this time, painted lips creasing in displeasure. "I suppose my sister reacted quite the same this morning then?" she sighed, exhaling through her nose. It made her seem more like a disappointed parent than an annoyed sibling. "Sharon doesn't like things that break her opinion of normalcy."

"I'm a war veteran," Bucky defended instantly, voice deepening in disgust. It felt like someone had switched on a light in his head, his shoulders straightening out and his chin lifting. He was used to people putting negative tones on how he lived now – commenting on his alcoholism or lazy lifestyle – but no one had lacked the decency to bitch about his service record. "War is not anyone's opinion of normalcy. I hate to upset your sister, but people dying on a battlefield _isn't normal_. People losing loved ones _isn't normal._ "

Peggy held up a hand in surrender. "I'm sorry if I upset you," she spoke softly, truly looking like she meant it. "I didn't know about your service. I dated a man for a few years who was enlisted as well, we couldn't handle the distance as well as we thought we could. Do you mind if I ask how long?"

Bucky settled somewhat, still eyeing her in distrust. He knew the tactic she was using rather well – the classic information swap – and knew she'd only said something personal in hopes he'd maybe feel he owed it to her to say something back. "I left school to join as soon as I was eighteen," he grumbled, shoving his hand in his pocket. "I could've joined earlier but you need parental consent. I didn't have it. I was honourably discharged after eight years."

"How old are you now?"

Bucky resisted the urge to bristle further – _she's only engaging in small talk, calm down_. "I'm twenty-seven now," he muttered. "Left at twenty-six."

Peggy gave him a warm smile, and like magic, his spine loosened. "Thank you for what you did," she allowed. "Anyway, sorry about doubling up on the _shake down thing_. I trust my sister to do it, really I do, but I'm terribly anal with things like this. Father always taught me that if I wanted something done right, I had to do it myself." Her eyes flickered down to the paper. "Also, I like _solid_ copies of information. I'm old fashioned like that."

The soldier let out a barking laugh. "You remind me of someone I know," he chuckled, wiping the mirth from his eyes. "Steve only accepted technology because he realised mixing batter with a machine was easier than mixing with his toothpick arms. He can mix more for less."

Peggy's smile urged him to continue. "Steve?"

"Best friend, art major, and part time baker," Bucky gave her the quick rundown, unable to stop from bragging about the blond. "You, uh, you feature local artists, don't you? I mean, I noticed the pieces on the walls and the plaques beneath them..."

Peggy let her eyes dance to the nearest piece, taking in the colours. "I get free art for my café, and get to support the little people, so to speak," she wrinkled her nose, almost like she was embarrassed by the notion. "I know where this is going. If you don't mind getting me your friend's number, then I can arrange a time to look at some of his pieces. We can work out where to go from there."

Bucky gave her his first genuine smile. "You're a saint."

Peggy grinned back, all mischievous sparkles and playful glints. "I do try," she teased, looking over her shoulder when someone shouted her name. "Ah, that's my sister. I better go. I hope to see you around, Bucky."

"You too."

Bucky watched the red head sway away, unabashedly admiring the view before he went to look at the blonde she spoke too. He didn't see the resemblance, but he wasn't one to argue genetics – he was the only blue eyed one in his family – so he let it slide, trying not to hold anything against the younger lady. Some people have trains of thought that can't be broken, beliefs so hard wired they can't be denied.

Tugging out his phone again, the soldier dialled a number so familiar he could say it backwards. "Steve! I'm giving your number to a hot red headed chick, and I swear to god, you argue right now and I'm gonna disown you."

* * *

 _Okay, and would you like chocolate or cinnamon on your coffee?_

Bucky blinked down at the finished cup, hand hovering before he picked one at random and lightly sprinkled it over the foam. The cappuccino looked decent enough, the pattern pretty and swirled artistically, with no spills or accidents dripping down the side – but it was the taste that mattered, wasn't it?

He wasn't struggling with making coffees – once he knew how to move and what angle to use the equipment, it was a blissful dream – but he was struggling with the _balance_. How much espresso and how much milk? Better yet, how much foam? How did he stop the milk from pouring out when he wanted the foam? How did he stop the foam when he wanted the milk? Why couldn't he win?

Bucky bit his lip, staring down at the warm brown mug with hesitance. He'd been so confident a few minutes earlier, confident to make his best friend a coffee and bask in the smile he'd receive when the blond realised he could do something right and not –

There was a clang from behind him, and he started in surprise, checking for movement over his shoulder almost nervously. The bakery was in the midst of closing up, and the main employees – Steve and Nat – were busy cleaning the back, having already finished wiping down tables and sweeping the floors. He'd be alone for the next few minutes at most.

 _Maybe I'll make one for Natasha too…_

But then it would be double the failure, wouldn't it? Bucky shifted to the side, already moving to put together the strongest cup he knew how to make. It could either be double the failure or double the achievement. He wanted to save his pride from embarrassment, sure, but at the same time he'd spent hours mastering techniques today that he wanted to share – like a child showing his father he knew how to catch a ball.

 _An Americano? Natasha would like that…_

Doubling the shot of espresso – the woman liked her coffee as strong as her will – he tried to make it look as neat as the cappuccino did, canting his head from side to side as he studied it.

 _Good enough._

"Steve? Natty? You guys all finished back there?" Bucky called, gently shifting the mugs until they sat front and centre. The bakery had the sweetest cups, he had to admit, chocolaty browns for bigger sizes and a gleaming gold for shots and espressos. He'd never admit it out loud but he was tempted to steal one to use for his morning cuppa. "Guys?"

Blond tufts poked through the door. "What's up, Buck? We're finishing up the dishes now," Steve explained, popping through and wiping his hands on a dishtowel. His eyes landed on the two cups. "You didn't."

Bucky nervously pushed the cappuccino closer. "I made you this…"

Steve was grinning from ear to ear, like the cat that ate the canary. "Natasha, get out here, you gotta see this!" he gushed, wrinkling his nose and practically skipping to the counter. "Bucky-bear made us a drink! They look great."

It was red curls that popped up next, gleaming eyes quick to follow. "Oh, I'm spoilt," Natasha sung, looking every bit like a twelve year old girl as she danced to his side. Twin arms wrapped around his midsection, curls now ticking his nose and getting caught in his stubble. "Bucky-boo, you're too nice to me! Whatever did I do to deserve this?"

"I'm never going out of my way to make you guys nice things again."

Steve had already taking a sip – _shit, shit, he hadn't been looking to see his first reaction –_ and laughed at the comment, already moving to take another fortifying mouthful. "God, that tastes good. Thanks Buck, after the day I had, I needed this."

Bucky felt his shoulders loosen.

Natasha took one hand away from his waist to delicately pick up her espresso cup, taking one sip to test its flavour. Her eyes lit up. "You gave me a double shot," she realised happily, grinning his way. "Steve's right, you're doing good. By the end of the week you'll be better than Rumlow!" If that wasn't a compliment, then he didn't know what was. "Also, speaking of, you'll never believe who came in today."

"Don't tell me? Rumlow?" Bucky used his only arm to wrap it around her shoulders, offering silent support. "You should've called me. The guy still pisses himself whenever he sees me, I love it," he chuckled. "Helps me sleep some nights."

Steve propped his small body up on the counter. "Natty handled him rather well," he complimented, reaching into the nearest jar to pull out a simple chocolate chip cookie. Nobody argued – he _was_ the one who made most of them, and he was thin enough that whenever he felt like eating, everyone piled food on him like panicked mothers. "He left with his tail between his legs and his pride somewhere in the trashcan."

"Correction; his pride in my fist," Natasha winked. "I fired his ass."

Bucky kissed her temple, proud of the woman he'd adopted as a fourth sister. "That's my girl," he chortled, smoothing a hand over her hair. "Did he try the whole _you hate my burns_ thing he'd been planning?"

"Tried and failed," Steve grinned around a mouthful of chocolate. "When he realised he'd already been replaced – by a war vet with a missing arm – he almost fainted on the spot. I think he realised exactly what we did – that his argument didn't mean shit if his replacement was in a similar, or worse depending on how you look at it, situation than he was."

Bucky looked at the empty space below his left shoulder, feeling the usual pang of _something_ curl in his chest. He managed to smother it with a proud smile. "Glad I could help," he announced honestly. "So, uh, how are the coffees?"

Natasha squeezed him softly. "I won't lie – they're not perfect, but like I said, by the end of the week, you'll be great."

That was the best damn thing he'd heard all day.

Steve held out the rest of his cookie to the brunet, small stomach unable to handle the entire thing. "I can't really tell the difference, so it tastes fine to me," he admitted shyly, swirling it around before downing it. "You wanna see where we keep our spare coffee beans and all? I can finish up the dishes if you wanna show him, Natasha. Just so he knows where everything is."

Natasha gulped back her drink as well, passing the cup to the blond. "Sounds good," she allowed. "Alright, James, let's go."

* * *

 **Hey! I hope you like it. I'm extremely busy with studies and life – oh life, dude, I hate it – so I apologize for how late this is, and how it's a little shorter than usual. I've only really been working on it for the past few days.**

 **Taila xx**


	4. Blueberry Muffins

Bucky awkwardly fixed his apron, toying with the knotted string and obnoxiously frilled edges. "Okay, so tell me again why this is _absolutely_ necessary?" he muttered, looking up to demand an answer from laughing eyes.

The red head only gestured to his body as a whole, other hand lifted to hide a toothy smile. "Your shirt is white, and coffee isn't. I'm trying to protect your _only_ clean piece of clothing here," she argued lightly, wiggling in exaggerated excitement as the bell above the door tinkled. " _Oh_ , sounds like you have a customer incoming. If I was you, I'd stop scowling. It scares people. Give me a smile so damn bright it'll penetrate sunglasses."

Bucky suppressed the urge to poke out his tongue – he failed, but it was the effort that mattered. "That's not a good enough reason to use the word _penetration_ ," he grumbled childishly.

Natasha grinned remorselessly. "Any reason is a good reason," she countered, peering over her shoulder. It took less than a second for the smile to widen beyond possibility, cheeks stretching enough to cause damage. "Oh, I'm not even sorry. This is going to be perfect."

The soldier tried to look around her, only catching a glimpse of dirty brown locks. "What?" he grunted, uselessly straining onto his toes. Whoever had made the red head grin so mischievously was about to become the bane of his existence, he just knew it. "What have you done?"

"Hey, you know the bowls we have for extra-large orders? Fill it with milk foam. No charge."

"Natasha, don't ignore me. _What did you do?"_

The red head gave him a wink and slunk away, ducking towards the back room before the soldier could make any more demands. Bucky wanted to follow but movement caught his attention, both eyes slamming to the man when he reached the counter. He was rather plain – _attractive_ but plain – with a walkman bulking up his waistline and a beat making him dance around as he wandered closer.

Uncertainty settled in his stomach. Natasha _must've_ been messing with him, trying to make him go on the alert…

Must've been, right?

The guy hit the counter, slapping both hands down and offering up a bright smile. "Hey mate," he greeted, seemingly happy to meet the one armed war veteran. "You know, I'm quite the regular here, but I don't think I've seen you before? First day or are you filling in for someone?"

Was he still smiling? Jesus. Bucky blinked, spending a split second too long trying to find out how the whole _small_ _talk_ thing worked. "Oh yeah, yeah. First day, and first customer," he admitted shamelessly, smiling back as mildly as he could. "I'm the new barista – replacing the other guy. You might know him. Permanent resting burnt-bitch face? Massive asshole? Annoyingly perfect hair?"

The guy cracked up, not necessarily laughing _harder_ than he should've, but showing the mirth more openly than the soldier was used too. "I know him. Glad to see he's been replaced actually, he was such an asshole to us."

 _Us?_

Bucky snorted. "You and me both, pal," he muttered.

"Well then..." The man spared the ground a look, fond smile taking over his polite greeting. "I guess since you're sticking around, I'll give you the proper introduction – see if he likes you and what not. He hated _bitch face_ but that was with good reason," he explained, bending at the waist to fiddle with something on the floor. The solider was about three seconds away from awkwardly edging into the kitchen when something warm, brown, and covered in fuzz was dumped on the counter.

Huh.

Bucky blinked at the animal, confused for about half a minute before he took it in stride. His life had had weirder moments. "You have a pet raccoon," he realised calmly, staring at the curious creature before holding out a hand. It sniffed and nibbled, testing both his smell and taste.

"Don't call him a raccoon, or he'll eat you alive," the odd man warned hurriedly. As if to cement the fact he hated the term, the raccoon's needle like teeth pierced skin, small jaw working. "His name's Rocket, and I'm Peter."

Bucky didn't even wince, accepting the pain and scolding for what it was. "Bucky, pleasure to meet you," he nodded, already petting the furry ears with a smile. That was allowed, and beady eyes warned him against anything funny before closing in contentment. "Dude, I want one."

Peter gave him a shocked but amused look. "Dude, _I know._ They're the best pets ever," he gushed, placing both hands on the creature's stomach and petting it. He received a low growl, but didn't care much for the sound, apparently used to it. "This one is pretty snappy, but he's great."

How the hell could a racoon be snappy? Bucky asked as much, continuing to gently scratch between twin ears.

"If you call him a trash panda or a raccoon, he'll literally try to tear off one of your limbs," Peter chuckled before stopping short, eyes flicking to the obvious lack of an arm. "So, uh, avoid doing that or…" There was a vague hand movement thrown in. "Adios remaining arm, am I right?"

Bucky quirked a curious brow, not unhappy about the lame joke, but not amused either. "You're right," he allowed. He took back his only hand – he was about to need it – and the small animal chirped at the lost, catching a finger with a small paw. The soldier didn't move to shake it away, instead keeping his hand within reach, and looking back to the man. "Anyway, what can I get you two?"

Peter fished out a wallet, using his other hand to distract his pet. "I'd say _the usual_ , but you don't know it," he pointed out sheepishly. "So, uh, can I have the chicken and brie panini, blueberry muffin, one large mocha and one large… well, warmed and frothed milk? In a bowl, if that's okay?"

 _Natasha's instructions make sense now…_

Bucky rang up the order, his moving fingers a source of entertainment for the little guy. "Rocket, would you like full cream, skim or soy?" he asked, lowering his face slightly to address the animal. "Oh, and cinnamon or chocolate?"

"Well, full cream makes his tummy hurt," Peter cooed, scratching an ear and getting chomped for the effort. "He loves almond – there should be a special case in the fridge. He also happens to love chocolate and marshmallows. Just so you know."

The soldier checked and, son of a bitch there _was_ a case, one with a crudely drawn – he tiled his head to the side – he assumed it was meant to be a raccoon drawn on the side, but it looked more like an overgrown rat. "Yeah, I think I found it," he admitted slowly, placing it beside the coffee machine for later use. "Just want it warm and frothy, huh?"

Peter grinned. "You got it."

Bucky hummed, checking over the order before scratching brown ears. "Okay then, we're sweet. That'll be fourteen ninety. Cash or card?"

As the man waved a card, already moving to swipe it through and waste some hard earned cash – _not waste, there was nothing about his blondies' baking that was wasteful –_ the soldier heard something creak ominously behind him. Bucky could practically feel his instincts tense up, complaining that he wasn't turning to assess the new threat.

As subtly as he could, he peeked over his shoulder, meeting pale eyes in a sudden clash of colour. Natasha looked once to the customer, and then back to him, both brows lifting in approval. He could read what she was trying to say almost as clearly as he would've heard it.

 _Good work, James_.

Bucky smiled, turning back to face the customer and his lazily chirping pet. "Great, thanks," he droned politely, tapping the small creature on the nose as he handed over the receipt. "Did you want your panini grilled, or the muffin heated? I swear the baking here gets better with temperature. I can't say the same thing about the drinks though. Hot or cold, my coffee still tastes like shit."

Peter snorted, shaking his head. "Loving that confidence," he teased, shifting to pick up the animal – _oh god, it had a leash and harness, why?_ – and place it back on the ground. "Panini yes, muffin no. I only get it for Rocket. He picks out all the blueberries."

"Please tell me you don't waste the actual muffin?"

Peter looked genuinely horrified at the thought. "Hell no, that's a crime," he muttered, moving to walk towards one of the booths. Rocket skittered along the floor after him, happily trotting behind his heels.

Bucky chuckled, moving to put the order together – shoving a panini onto the grill and grinding some beans for the mochaccino. He'd practised enough over the past week that it was _relatively_ easy with one arm, rather than a tedious struggle, but he still had to pay attention to how he moved. It was easier to muck up a cup than he thought, but rather than a pressure to be perfect, he felt calm. He felt that, yeah if he mucked up it would be bad, but it wouldn't be _dangerous_. He could close his eyes, count to ten, and restart.

It was so different than a battlefield, so much better, and – and did, did he really compare making coffee's to being a solider?

Bucky paused, looking up to the door before continuing to make the mochaccino. It was an odd thought. There was nothing even _remotely_ similar between the situations, yet he couldn't help but make connections. It was beans or ammo, cups or guns, a bakery or a blood-soaked desert. Hell, it was _marshmallows or bombs._ Zero similarities yet everything seems to be on the same parallel.

He placed the finished mochaccino to the side, making sure to add a spoon, napkin and marshmallows along the rim. The panini was emitting a gorgeous smell, and with a quick check, he deigned it ready as well, placing it next to the cup. It was a juggling act – like making sure you aimed, fired and reloaded without getting hit back by the enemy. You had to make the drinks and the food without burning it or giving it too much time to cool down.

Zero similarities, but same parallels.

Bucky hummed as he lightly frothed up the milk, sprinkling a dusting of chocolate over it and making sure to add a few treats as well. Rocket would be his best friend within days, he swore it. "Alright, so one large mocha and one special for my man," he announced, gently balancing the second plate in the crook of his wrist. "I'll go get your meals, give me one second."

Peter grinned, catching sight of the multiple marshmallows lining both their cups. "Dude, are you trying to bribe my trash panda?"

"What? I'd never." Bucky jogged back to the counter, making sure both things were plated neatly before bringing them over to the booth. "Okay, and that's the wrap. How's the drink, Rocket?" he asked, nodding when he noticed twin tiny hands wrapped around the bowl.

The raccoon chirped back.

He seriously needed to invest in a pet, he could almost feel his heart melting. "That's good, I live to please," Bucky gave an absent pat to a scruffy neck, earning another purring grunt. "If you need anything more, shout out. I'll probably hang around out here, anyway. I'm only trained to make shitty coffees, not shitty cupcakes," he teased, grabbing a hidden marshmallow and waving it before a long snout.

Rocket almost died of excitement, hands grabbing it tightly and sharp teeth gnawing away happily.

Peter tipped his cup. "It tastes good enough to me. If _bitch face_ made it, I could usually taste the hate, you know?" he sighed, stirring the contents around lazily. "But with this I can taste the disinterest. It's great."

Rolling blue eyes, the man waved a hand over his shoulder as he wandered away, not bothering to dignify the words with an answer. His voice was a blessing after all, deep and gravely and – and that man did _not_ deserve to hear it's low lilting tones. Bucky snorted, tipping his chin up as he moved to double check the coffee machine, ensuring every crook and nanny was clean. It was his new baby, after all.

The door behind him opened as he was running a cloth over metal, bringing forward the shifting smell of baking bread. "Buck? Everything okay?"

Bucky smothered a smile, wiping a hand over his lips. "Steve, I'm okay, stop stressing out back there," he scolded, turning to quirk up a brow. "Just served my first customer, and… and made friends with a raccoon? Although I'm not sure that last bit actually happened yet."

Steve lit up, blue eyes bright. "Oh, Peter's here?" he questioned excitably, looking around before waving wildly. "Let me guess, blueberry muffin?"

The soldier nodded. "Ding, ding, ding," he announced, turning around to get back to wiping down the machine. He'd only used it once, and okay, he only had one arm, but he wanted to keep it entertained between customers. "We have a winner."

Steve smiled back indulgently, tapping his fingers against the wall. "So, uh…" he cleared his throat, one hand coming up to rub across his neck and tug on the shorter hairs there. It was one of his more infamous nervous ticks. "Um, how are you going so far? Day one, customer one. It's pretty big."

Bucky closed his eyes, luckily standing with his back to the smaller man. He should've known the blond would be overprotective – he's spent months with the firm decision set in his mind, certain he'd never get back into the workforce, certain he couldn't handle it. Then he decided he could and he would. There was no build up, no life changing moment. He'd just said _okay_.

Steve probably didn't think his resolve would last.

Joke was on him then. Bucky planned on lasting in that small bakery until the end of days.

"Listen punk I'm – " The bell above the doorway chimed, and the words died in his throat, forgotten already. "Did you mean day one, customer _two_?" Bucky chuckled, turning to check how his joke sat with the blond. He'd been hoping for a smile back, maybe a courteous snort, but the door was already swinging shut behind the smaller man. The soldier sighed, dropping his head. "Damn."

"You know, I was just thinking the same thing," a new voice intoned, sounding dangerously smooth. _"Damn_. _"_

Bucky took in a small breath before he peered up curiously, mutedly interested in whoever the hell was flirting with the one-armed barista. The deep brown eyes he met however, were like a punch to his gut. _Fuck_. "Well, aren't you sweet?" he droned, cocking out a hip. "But I hate to tell you, if you wanna make me blush you're gonna have to try a lot harder than that."

The new man grinned, white teeth practically sparkling. "I always love a good challenge," he purred, leaning against the counter with a pleased gleam to his eye. It was either a testament to how hot this guy was, or how desperate the soldier was, when he felt his stomach clench tightly. "It's been a while since I've had to work for it, but I think you're worth it."

"Oh god, give me a break," Natasha popped up, appearing out of nowhere to both scare the shit out of him, and also simultaneously cockblock him. They were gonna have a long talk later. "Stark, would you leave my new barista alone? I can't have you scaring him away. He's the best I could find."

 _Stark_ gave him an open, lazy, once over. "I don't doubt it. If his coffee's taste half as good as he looks…"

Natasha actually gagged, for once in her life _not_ looking completely refined. "You repulse me," she realised with startling clarity, not bothering to give the man any more of her attention and instead looking to the other. "If he creeps you out, James, spray him with holy water. That's bound to get rid of him. I have to shoot to the bank real quick, okay? I'll be back before your lunch break."

Bucky quirked up a brow. "Damn, I left my bottle of holy water in my other apron…"

"Castrate him then. Steve will happily lend you a bread knife."

Both men watched the woman sway away, red curls bouncing and terrifying smile on point. Bucky wasn't sure he was _relieved_ the woman was technically on his side, or worried she now saw him as an easy target. Time would tell.

Stark shivered dramatically, reminding the brunet he was still there. "Oh god, she scares me. I feel like one second she's my friend, and then the next I'm clinging onto life by a sarcastic thread, you know?" he muttered, turning those big doe like eyes on the soldier. "But at least now I understand what that movie meant when they said the devils wear Prada…"

Bucky snorted out a laugh. "Excuse you, she prefers Gucci."

"Expensive lass," Stark chortled. "What about you, what do you prefer?"

The soldier smiled softly, giving a half-hearted shrug. "Me? I prefer it when my customers _order…"_

Stark studied him in silence for a few minutes, eyes roaming before he let out a soft exhaling laugh. "Okay, I like you. You've got sass. The last guy was just all _ass,"_ he rolled his eyes, winking. "See what I did there? Rhyming. Anyway, cappuccino with a double shot of espresso and full cream milk. If you add whipped cream, I know you like me. When's your lunch break?"

The rush of words was like listening to rain hitting a window – inconsistent, calming and distracting as all hell. "I take it you want a large?" he murmured, watching the boundless energy. It had to be from caffeine. "Anything else?" Bucky finished, purposefully avoiding the last question.

Stark canted his head to the side. "Just your number."

"Great, that'll be six fifty," Bucky announced, hitting the till so it let out that obnoxious _ting_ that showed the order was finished. "Takeaway?"

The brunet leant further against the counter now, holding out a note and giving the most charming smile he could manage. "I'll have it here, thanks. What's your name? Come on, you have to tell me that, don't you? Natasha called you James…"

"Don't call me – only my parents call me that," he grumbled, digging through the cash register to find his change. "Please, it's Bucky."

The man shot out his hand, waiting patiently until fingers locked with his own. It was a warm, friendly shake – miles away from the overly intimate clammy thing he'd been expecting. "Pleased to meet you Bucky," he grinned. "I'm Tony."

* * *

 **Okay, we all knew who it was – I gave a last name – but come on that was an awesome ending. I have a headache.**

 **Taila xx**


	5. Apple Pie

Bucky tied and then retied his shoes, making sure to tuck away the laces – he hated feeling them move as he ran – before straightening up. "I'm not budging, I still vote omelets," he winked, stretching his arm cleanly over his head. "I'm gonna share a blueberry muffin with Rocket on my first break anyway. I'm trying to avoid too much sugar before noon."

The blond stared back dumbly. "Okay, wait, you said _no_?" he checked, still seemingly slack-jawed. "You've never said no to my pancakes before and – and did you say no to _sugar?_ Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?"

"Come on, Stevie, don't be like that," Bucky groaned, grinning all the while. "I'm getting older, I gotta make sure I stay in shape."

Steve looked once to the frying pan, and then back to the brunet, blinking innocently. "Pancake is a shape."

The soldier barked out a laugh, moving forward to clap the smaller man on the back. "I won't be long, I promise," he ducked his head to catch blue eyes, wanting his genuine smile to be seen. "I just wanna run through a few drills, put all that military training to good use. Anyway, my cardio endurance has gone to shit, I tried to run to the bathroom yesterday during the lunch rush and I got outta breath. I'll barely make five miles."

Steve couldn't hide his answering smile, chuckling as he shook his head. "It _is_ nice to see you in a good mood," he murmured, making sure to shove back. "I'm going to start making breakfast after my shower, maybe after I do a quick spot of study. You've got less than an hour, sergeant."

Bucky snapped into a salute. "Aye, aye!"

After being bustled out of the apartment – _how now, you can't kick me out, I pay rent too you skinny little bastard –_ hefinished his stretching lazily, taking in the early morning. The crisp air burnt his lungs, and he grinned through the chill, purposefully closing his eyes and breathing in deep. He took a few seconds to appreciate how sharp it was, how low the light was and how it spat orange and crimson on the horizon...

Then he started running.

It took him less than a second to realize that his comment about _barely reaching five miles_ was more than right. The muscles in his legs were as taunt as bow strings, tight and complaining before he'd even managed to make a block. He knew it would fade in a few minutes as his muscles warmed up, but it was a grim omen about how the run would end.

The soldier bared his teeth as he slowed, rounding a corner. He was gonna hurt tomorrow. Joy

Despite the pain, he managed a mile quick enough – his watch, some technology nuts creation, beeped to inform him as much – but already he could feel a cough settle in his lungs. The only downfall to running early or late, he supposed, was that it _burnt_. It was ten times harder to breathe than it should've been, like he was falling sick, like he'd run miles already.

As the second came up, he had to stop, doubling over to get some air in his lungs. "Goddamn," he wheezed, beginning to chuckle before the sound broke into a cough. "I'm so out of shape it actually hurts, wow."

In the time it had taken him to run, the sun had breached the skyline, and he stopped to admire it with a breathless smile. He could do this, couldn't he? Stick with work, stick with his best friend, stick with the painfully optimistic side of his head. He could get better and he liked to think this was how he'd do it _._ He had somewhere he wanted to work, he had people he wanted to see and – and shit, he had a _smile_ he wanted to show.

That alone was a miracle. Bucky didn't believe in smiles – he believed infriendly grimaces.

Steve said they were frowns, but ah, _potato potato,_ right? There's always two different ways of seeing things.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he quickly shifted to the side, bowing his head when another man came up running. "Morning mate," he greeted, giving one of the aforementioned _friendly grimaces_. "Getting a head start on your new year's resolution?"

The man, breathless as he was, managed a chuckle. "Hell no, I'm trying to hide all the shit I ate these holidays," he countered, slowing down as he approached. He gave his hip an idle poke. "Does that look like a love handle to you? I mean, my wife says no, but my eyes say yes."

Bucky squinted. "Mine's bigger," he grumbled, rolling his eyes. "Good on yah. Have a good one."

"You too," the man waved over his shoulder, picking up speed again and disappearing around a corner.

The soldier cracked his neck and bounced on the spot, idly watching the direction the man had gone. That was another first for him. He wasn't above greeting people, but conversation? Damn, he was starting to push it. The good mood wouldn't last forever, that much he knew, so maybe it was better he count his blessings and call it a –

 _No._

The voice that echoed in his head sounded suspiciously familiar, and he bit back a complaint, clenching his teeth.

 _If you let this thing beat you, what kind of soldier are you?_

Bucky licked his lips, rolling out his shoulders as he turned to face the way he'd came. He'd been trained better than this, hell, he'd been _brought up_ better than this. Whatever it was, he'd beat it down with his head held high. As a soldier, he'd survived eight years in the middle of a war, only losing an arm. Now, as a man, he could survive the incoming years on a different battlefield without losing his sanity.

He checked the time on his watch – it took him almost twenty-five minutes to run two miles, god he _was_ outta shape – before beginning to run in the direction he came, figuring four miles was better than nothing. He didn't want to miss his omelet.

* * *

Bucky had yet to lose the apron.

He'd planned on kicking up a fuss about it, really he had, but then a certain red head – he wasn't going to name names, she knew who she was – had muttered how it was their part time waitress's favorite thing. Wanda loved that apron, and usually protected it with tooth and nail, but she'd wanted him to wear it – and that meant he would, comments be damned.

At least kids loved it. He'd had a mother come in with twins that morning, two adorable girls on those kiddie leashes, and seeing his pink frilly excuse of an apron had made them gurgle and giggle until they were red in the face.

Frilly or not, he'd decided to keep it and seeing the tip left by said mother only reinforce the decision.

Bucky was busy picking grinded beans from said frilly hem when the bell chimed, signaling someone had wandered past the threshold. It took him a few minutes to remember what his boss had instructed – again, no names were needed – and he gave a beaming smile, looking up with a practiced greeting on his lips. "Hey, welcome to…"

There was nobody there.

The soldier paused, thinking back to ensure he _had_ heard the bell a few seconds before. "The hell?" he muttered, slowly coming out from behind the counter. He was certain he'd heard it, and unless the person had pushed the door open and ran, there should've been someone in the store.

He turned, checking the entrance to the public bathrooms. They could've sprinted in there, but then he would've heard something, right? He would've heard hurried footsteps or the door creaking like it always did, he would've heard someone no doubt apologizing for the rush or the lock slamming into place. But the shop was quiet.

War trained instincts flared. _Someone's behind you, move now, move now, move –_

His fingers curled around a thick wrist, slamming into a tight hold that stopped the hand from coming any closer. "Holy shit!" the intruder exclaimed, either shocked by the thrum of pain in his wrist or the pace with which the soldier had moved.

Bucky bared his teeth and – "Tony?"

That was the bloke's name, wasn't it? The brunet who had flirted with him for what seemed like hours the day before, following him around as he did his duties like a puppy. It must've been because the man lit up, apparently forgetting the grip on his arm already. "You remember me, huh? I was hoping I made a lasting impression yesterday," he winked, grinning broadly. "Didn't mean to startle you."

Bucky dropped the arm like he'd been burnt, purposefully taking a step back. "Don't sneak up on me," he commanded weakly, checking the man over before darting around him. "It never ends well."

"You kidding me? That was hot," Tony announced, bouncing after him. "What are you? Ex-assassin…"

Bucky gave an obedient snort. "Ex-military, actually," he corrected dryly, moving back behind the counter where it was safe. "I was in charge of an elite unit that ran stealth operations behind enemy lines."

The soldier paused, almost astounded his mouth had formed those words. He hadn't told anyone about what he'd did, usually preferring to say he was once an army man and leaving it at that. The only people that really knew it in depth was his best friend and therapy group.

What the hell was wrong with him today?

Tony either missed his internal struggle or pretended not to see it. "Whoo," he whistled, leaning heavily against the counter with wide eyes. "You get even hotter by the minute, I swear. You're not undercover right now, are you? Wow. I feel like I'm in one of those erotic novels, you know? The ones your mum probably always read? My mother did at least. I used to sneak a peek if she left them lying around which – which means that by my calculations, we should be having mind blowing sex right now. I'll get the door, you get your pants."

Bucky blinked through the tirade, mind racing to keep up before the humor hit him and he chuckled. "No, I'm not undercover," he rolled his eyes, trying to think of a way to change the subject. Most people got uncomfortable about his arm, so… "My team were disbanded last year. If you can't guess why, I dare you to ask where I'm hiding my left arm."

Brown eyes flickered down. "Challenge accepted."

Bucky faltered – again, what was this man doing to him? – and opened his mouth, prepared to say _what_ though, he wasn't sure. "You…"

Tony grinned, bouncing on his toes. "I'm kidding, soldier. I know how to draw a line, believe it or not," he admitted, tapping his fingers on the countertop to some familiar beat. "If you want to tell me, you will."

Why was he saying that with such confidence?

Bucky studied the man for a few more seconds, taking him in more fully. He was dressed smart, a three-piece suit and tie like yesterday, and he honed it on that. "Why are you always dressed like you're about to attend a funeral?" he wondered loudly, not bothering to hide the blatant topic change. "It's making me depressed."

Tony smoothed down the lapels. "Excuse you, I'm dressed like a king," he grumbled, loosening the tie. "It makes me depressed too though, so I know how you feel. I miss my band shirts, but the board apparently expects _some_ semblance of sanity from me."

"The board?"

Tony was the one who looked incredulous now, one brow lifted and one dangerously down. "Yeah…" he drew out the word, canting his head to the side. "You know? Big businesses use _boards_ to ensure that all the interests of larger shareholders are meet."

Bucky frowned. "Since when are you a large shareholder?" he asked, quirking a brow right back.

Tony blinked, no longer looking confused but instead suspicious. "Okay, we're gonna play a quick game," he announced, narrowing his eyes at nothing in particular. "If you're wondering, no, it's not monopoly. I'm not immortal. I'm just gonna ask you some questions, and I want you to answer them honestly, okay?" he instructed carefully, both palms pressed together like he was praying.

 _The hell is going on right now?_ Bucky looked over his shoulder, hoping a certain red head – yeah, she knew who she was, blah blah blah – would appear suddenly to explain everything. The doorway to the back remained empty however, so he stared into brown eyes. "Um, cool?"

"Great. Okay, I'm just gonna fire a few at you," Tony waved his hands wildly, trying to gesture something the soldier didn't recognize. "What is my full name? What is _your_ full name? The watch you're wearing, which brand is it? Do you wanna go get lunch sometime? What is your quest? What is your favorite colour? What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?"

Whenever the brunet spoke, it was both a punch to the gut and a dizzy spell in one. If he wanted this conversation finished before the days end, he'd have to be quick. "Okay right, you're Tony Stark? I'm Bucky Barnes. Um, it's like some big technology industry or whatever, I can't remember its name but they've got some good shit," he sighed, taking in a deep breath as he checked the display of his watch. It said his heartbeat was increasing. "You can't afford me _or_ my stomach. I want world peace. Crimson red. European or African swallow?"

He was a fucking champion.

Tony smiled. "Your watch is from Stark Industries."

Bucky peered down at it, finding the words carved into the band. "Oh shit, so it is," he allowed, staring down at the watch with resolve. He'd do anything to avoid looking up and meeting brown eyes. "So I'm not really seeing why you wanted to play twenty questions?"

"What's my full name, and where is your watch from?" Tony asked slowly, like he was expecting some sudden epiphany or –

Shit.

 _Double shit._

Bucky blinked down at his watch, seeing the name glisten in the light. Stark Industries. _Stark_ Industries. Son of a bitch, it had gone clean over his head. How dumb could one person be? The man had walked in wearing a million dollar suit, had a million dollar smile _and_ a million dollar name to match and he hadn't connected the dots when he heard the name?

He needed his head checked.

Bucky slowly looked up, seeing an almost nervous pride written on the man's features. "So, I guess you _can_ afford me…"

Tony grinned, all cocky arrogance again as he practically draped over the counter once more. "Hm, so, is that a yes to the lunch then?" he purred, quirking a curious brow. "Lunch tastes better in a penthouse if you're interested in coming back home with me."

 _Playboy._

The soldier chuckled, dragging the sound out in hopes it would hide his nerves. How the hell was he gonna get out of this? Bucky may have been famous for sleeping around – but he was also famous for being drunk out of his mind when he did so. He didn't want to remember faces or names. He didn't want to remember what expression his partner made when they saw his scars.

Tony looked like he _really_ wanted to remember this, however, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by…

Bucky took in a calming breath. He'd handle this by playing it safe, assuming the man was teasing rather than showing genuine interest. It was the most likely way to avoid stepping on the genius's toes. "Natasha would kill me if I ditched work for a booty call," he rolled his eyes, like he was sharing an inside joke with the man. "Anyway, what can I get you?"

Brown eyes shuttered for a second. "Are you intimated by me?"

Bucky paused. "What? I – No, I just – "

Tony canted his head to the side. "Okay, am I not your type?"

" _No,_ you're – uh, you're great, usually the type I go for," Bucky admitted with a stutter. "I mean, brown eyes am I right?"

The genius chuckled, looking down to his fingers as they tapped against wood. "Is it something you've seen in some magazine?" he demanded next, his features no longer warm. "Maybe something you heard someone say to a buddy, and thought; _huh, must be true."_

Bucky had stared down a damn gun barrel before, but it hadn't been this terrifying. "… I don't really read any magazines," he murmured, shifting his weight between his feet. "I mean, wow, have you read some of them? According to Cosmopolitan, I've been applying my eyeliner wrong. I don't see what's so wrong about it. If I want it to look like war paint, then it's right not wrong."

Tony didn't even blink. "Go out for lunch with me," he repeated.

Bucky hesitated.

Remember that tired spiel? The one about how the most pivotal changes in life were defined by a single moment? The moral of the story was that the small things in life could turn out to be the biggest. _But_ – and this was a big but – it was a miracle you would never recognize.

Because see, that's how fate got you. It wrapped gifts in a disastrous package, and knew you'd never connect the two. It laughed as you screamed about how unfair everything was, when things were going exactly how you wanted. It liked to be a gentleman while also being an asshole. It wanted you to think you were losing when in fact, you'd already won.

As a result of its games, most people weren't the type to test fate – Bucky included. He'd already learnt the infamous wait and see tactic. He'd already learnt that fate liked to play with its food, and knew he shouldn't act before knowing where all the cards sat on the table.

He'd already learnt that fate was a huge bitch.

He knew all this, knew everything, but still couldn't help it. He didn't think this would come back to haunt him, didn't think he would ever remember these two words as something that changed _everything._ He didn't think that when he straightened out his shoulders and met brown eyes in challenge, he officially signed his life over.

Bucky smiled.

" _Make me."_

* * *

 **Oooooooh, girl what? Come on, tell me that ending wasn't badass. I dare you. It was fabulous and we both know it.**

 **Taila xx**


End file.
